


With Sincere Affection

by merigold



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff, M/M, Magical Realism, Sappy, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-27 09:15:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9996413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merigold/pseuds/merigold
Summary: “Welcome, Mr. Katsuki, and thank you for choosing our office to receive your Soulmark today! It’s a pleasure to help guide you on the path of lifelong love.” The man’s salesman voice is strong. “There are just a few formalities we’ll need to get out of the way before we begin, you understand.”Yuuri nods. He’s already filled out a mountain of all-English paperwork to get this far, but considering the permanent nature of tattoos, caution makes sense.“Can you please confirm for me the intended location of your Soulmark?”“My left hip, please.” Yuuri intentionally chose a place that would be easy to conceal.“Great choice, great choice,” the man praises, no doubt in the same tone and inflection as he does every day to every client. “And are you aware of and consent to the fact that the size and contents of the mark are up to chance and not within the control of Soulmark Corporation?”The paperwork had made it extremely clear how futile and expensive it would be to sue the corporation in the event he doesn’t like his mark. “Yes, I understand.”





	1. 海

**Author's Note:**

> Soundtrack: [I Get To Love You - RUELLE](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m1mkYWkoXyo)

“You don’t have to,” Phichit says.

Yuuri forces his clenched fists to relax, spreading his fingers out. Phichit is good at reading Yuuri.

“I want to.” Yuuri says. That much is true, really. The sleek and modern Soulmark office in Detroit is intimidating, bright white walls and expensive furniture with delicate gold accents. In Japan, Soulmark offices are much more traditionally styled. He’s seen the promotional materials his whole life, posters in the train station of couples quietly sharing tea in a cafe or a bride and groom at a shrine, gazing into each other’s eyes. The advertising campaigns are especially popular around Christmas and Valentine’s and Yuuri has always eyed them with a mix of anxiety and longing.

Today is April 30th, Phichit’s birthday. He’s finally old enough to receive his mark in America—eighteen years old. If he were still in Thailand, he’d have had his mark for two years, now. If Yuuri was still home in Japan, he could have had it done a year ago, at twenty.

“I’m glad you came.” Phichit says, smiling and deliberately not bringing up the fact that Yuuri’s hands have curled back up into fists, that his face is just about the same white as the walls. Phichit is a great friend. “I don’t like needles at all!”

“You aren’t supposed to feel it,” Yuuri says. The person getting the mark is always sedated during the procedure itself, to protect the secrets of the trade and to allow the receiver to dream.

Soulmarks are still a little mystical, it’s true, but the application process itself is 100% rooted in reality; Soulmarkers are a heavily-regulated mix of psychic and tattoo artist. The inspiration comes from the divine, so they say, but the methods are mundane.

It’s possible to fake a mark, alter an existing one, or even copy the mark of someone you adore. That is why the world-wide Soulmark Corporation, who developed the technique in the 1960’s, is meticulous in protecting their brand by licensing each Soulmarker and taking extensive legal action against fakes.  

“What do you think yours will look like?” Phichit asks, eyes bright. He has been counting down the days to this and it physically pains him that he can’t take part in the popular “What I expected / What I got” Soulmark social media challenge. The Thai skater lives for those things.

Neither of them will be poting their marks online. Both Phichit and Yuuri are athletes in the public eye just enough that sharing their marks to social media would be stupid. They have fans. Even though it’s illegal, marks can be faked by the determined.

“I haven’t really thought about what it will look like,” Yuuri answers (though he had daydreamed about exactly who it would match). “How about you?”

“Hmm,” Phichit says, tilting his head to the side and clutching his cheek. A bit of a performance to try to cheer Yuuri up. “Maybe a hamster.”

It’s clearly a joke; Soulmarks are nearly always abstract, entirely unique. Yuuri smiles despite himself.

“Phichit Chulanont?” A blond woman enthusiastically mispronounces. She has a clipboard and a bright, American smile, and must have stepped into the waiting room while they were talking.

“Hello! That’s me.” Phichit gets up from the waiting room chair, squeezes Yuuri’s shoulder reassuringly, and follows the lady deeper into the office.

“Happy birthday!” Yuuri hears, before the door swings shut.

He’s next, then. The waiting room is empty except for him—he spends the next half hour in uncomfortable silence with himself.

The entire idea of soulmates is still in the realm of the fantastic. Despite the complete lack of scientific explanation, verified soulmates have an extremely high relationship success rate. Soulmates aren’t guaranteed to meet, of course, much less fall in love. You might never find them or they might be long dead; they might be in another relationship all together.

Still, very few who meet their soulmates have regrets. It’s often said that Soulmarkers are just revealing something that has always been there, right beneath the skin.

As much as it frightens Yuuri, he knows that he wants that kind of connection. Yuuri is a romantic.

“Yuuri Katsuki?” This Soulmarker is different than the one who called Phichit, although he struggles with the unfamiliar syllables of the Japanese man’s name all the same. It’s a man this time, in a sleek white coat with a button-up gold shirt underneath. American Soulmarkers seem very flashy.

The hallways they walk through to get to the application room reminds Yuuri more of a doctor’s office than anything else, sterile and bright. When they reach the room itself, it’s smaller than he had expected, with two chairs, a low exam table, and not much else. A single framed illustration of a metallic gold heart is the only decoration, and quiet piano music is pumped in over the speakers.

Yuuri and the Soulmarker sit down in the chairs.

“Welcome, Mr. Katsuki, and thank you for choosing our office to receive your soulmark today! It’s a pleasure to help guide you on the path of lifelong love.” The man’s salesman voice is strong. “There are just a few formalities we’ll need to get out of the way before we begin, you understand.”

Yuuri nods. He’s already filled out a mountain of all-English paperwork to get this far, but considering the permanent nature of tattoos, caution makes sense.

“Can you please confirm for me the intended location of your soulmark?”

“My left hip, please.” Yuuri intentionally chose a place that would be easy to conceal. The placement is also laid out quite clearly in the paperwork, a circle on a diagram midway between his bellybutton and his side. He hopes it isn’t too large–it would be best to keep it above his waistband so it doesn’t rub while healing.

“Great choice, great choice,” the man praises, no doubt in the same tone and inflection as he does every day to every client. “And are you aware of and consent to the fact that the size and contents of the mark are up to chance and not within the control of Soulmark Corporation?”

The paperwork had made it extremely clear how futile and expensive it would be to sue the corporation in the event he doesn’t like his mark. “Yes, I understand.”

“Great, wonderful! Wonderful. Final thing—if you do not have a soulmark to be found, do you consent and understand that you are still financially responsible to pay the reduced appointment fee?”

Somehow that’s the worst fear, that no one is out there for him at all. It’s rare, but it does happen. “Yes. I understand.”

“Fantastic! Let’s get you started.” The man winks and hands Yuuri a pile of thin, white hospital-style robes. “I’ll give you a minute to yourself, then. Just put these on and lay down on the table! I’ll be back in five or so.”

It’s vulnerable, waiting. Yuuri goes over the choreography for his latest short program with his eyes shut. The step sequence is precise and he pictures each piece in detail.

The Soulmarker comes back and hands Yuuri a little white cup of clear liquid; for the actual procedure he’ll be unconscious. On the upside, he shouldn’t feel the pain of the mark being applied.

The liquid is sickly sweet on the way down, calibrated for an American palate. Its effect is almost instantaneous, walls fading out a little, fine details blurring.

It’s like slipping under water, disorienting and heavy. If he does indeed have a soulmate out there somewhere, he hopes beyond hope that the dream will be kind.

 

* * *

 

It’s the familiar beach in Hasetsu. Yuuri can feel the cool sand beneath him as he sits and hear the clear sound of gulls overhead. When you receive your mark, most people do dream of their match; often fragmented, never with specifics like a face or a name.

Hasetsu, huh. That makes sense, really. He can’t figure skate forever, and where else would he end up when it’s over?

It’s the ocean, which Yuuri has always enjoyed being near. Not the ice, definitely—even alone in a dream, he is embarrassed by that childish thought.

Wave after wave crashes on the shore. The embarrassment melts away and Yuuri feels so relaxed, so deeply at peace. The sky is a vivid, unnatural blue, not a cloud in sight. Even here in his soulmate dream, it reminds him of Viktor’s eyes.

The air smells like salt and sea. Yuuri absently runs his dream-fingers through the familiar curled fur of Vicchan, who is inexplicably at his side. He recognises his dog through the texture of his fur alone, unable to tear his eyes away from the blue of the sky.

Someone, somewhere, will bring this warm peace. If they’re alive, if they meet, if they want him. The pull of this calm for an anxious person like Yuuri is so strong, he’s willing to hold onto that hope with everything he has.

Later, Yuuri wakes up heavy-limbed in the application room and uses sedative-clumsy fingers to wipe at his wet eyes.

 

* * *

 

The company gives you a little booklet, edged in gold foil, immediately after you wake up. It’s to record the contents of your dream, to share later with your soulmate, with your future children someday. Yuuri, conscious of the Soulmarker in the room, wrote simply 海. His dream was much too private to share, even with a piece of paper.

Phichit’s in the waiting room when he gets out, grinning and swiping through notifications on his phone (his followers are sending birthday wishes and demands to see his mark at a roughly equal rate). “There you are!” He says. “How’d it go?”

“Good! How about you?” The remnants of the dream have left Yuuri feeling relaxed and, to his surprise, very happy.

“Not a hamster,” Phichit says mock-sadly, tucking his phone away and getting up to stand by his roommate. He’d opted to get his mark on his left calf; the light wrapping covering it is just visible below the Thai skater’s capris. Luckily, it’s a warm day for April in Michigan.

They leave the office together, tattoo aftercare materials in hand, and head back to their dormitory. Birthday plans with their rinkmates await—perhaps a trip to Phichit’s favorite restaurant, then later the arcade.

Phichit tells Yuuri about his dream on the way back. It was a beach too, albeit a sunny, tropical one. Later, when they compare marks, Yuuri is struck by how well the tight, black geometric design fits his best friend; confident, bold, exuberant. Phichit says the same about Yuuri’s mark when he shyly shows it off, that it fits exactly right. Delicate, looping curls intertwine in a symmetrical, radial pattern, like a snowflake or a flower. It’s black—most marks are a single color—and stands out boldly on Yuuri’s hip like a promise.

It’s bigger than he expected, somehow, about the size of an apple. It’ll be rough to cover in the onsen someday. Soulmark-covering adhesive patches are widely available, and he makes a note to pick some up for when it’s healed enough to hide that way.

 

* * *

 

Viktor Nikiforov, popular and on an incredible winning streak, appears often in magazines and skating blogs. Yuuri may or may not collect all of them.

Magazines will often photoshop out Soulmark-covers for their celebrity features, so it isn’t until a smaller blog does a feature on “Viktor’s Beach Vacation!!” that Yuuri learns his idol has a mark, too. They neglect to edit the cover out, and the Japanese skater stares for too long at the skintone patch on his left collarbone, above his heart. The mark itself is still a mystery, of course, but now Yuuri’s embarrassing hopes have greater fuel.

 

* * *

 

Years later, crying in the bathroom after his first and likely last GPF, Yuuri thinks about his missed jumps, his missed chance with his idol, the missed years with his beloved Vicchan. He’s gained enough weight that the pudge in his stomach distorts his Soulmark, enough to make it curl out just a little. He can’t bear to look at it.

 

* * *

 

 

Viktor loves surprises, the act of turning expectations on their head. He can’t shut down the part of his mind, the performer, constantly checking, “What if I did _this_? What reaction would I get here?”

The sponsor banquet at the end of important competitions is one of the places where he keeps such urges in check. Banquets remain a boring, stuffy routine; his life has been starting to feel the same way. Winning, performing, even victory has become a routine. Viktor feels his motivation slipping.

“Viktor, Viktor! There he is, Mr. Gold.” Chris, friendly and bright, pulls up alongside him. He and Viktor are both holding flutes of Champagne, ¾ full; banquets put restraints on them both.

“Chris, Chris!” Viktor says back, sing-song, smiling, “There’s Mr. Silver.”

Chris laughs. “We’ll see who’s on top next year.” His eyebrow is raised, double entendre intended.

Next season. When Viktor thinks about new choreography, nothing comes to mind except exhaustion.

“Between us, Chris, I’ll always be on top.” He raises his own eyebrow, double entendre right back.

The Swiss skater takes another small sip of his drink, grinning wider. Chris likes to subvert expectations too.

“You’ll both be standing below me next year,” a new voice interrupts. Oh, Yuri’s here, face a stormcloud. This type of event is not to his tastes, not at all. Too honest, too young. Double meanings completely missed.

“We’ll see, little Yura.”

There’s a commotion across the hall; the buzz of conversation increases among scattered laughter. Chris and Viktor both visibly perk up at this indication of drama.

It’s the Japanese skater, with the lovely eyes and beautiful footwork, who had such a meltdown on the ice today. He’s approaching fast, tie loose, shirt unbuttoned at the neck.

He’s extremely drunk.

“Sooo you say there’s no room for two Yuris on the ice, huh?” The finger he points at Yuri waves unsteadily in the air. His glasses are askew. “I challenge you do a dance off, right here, right now.”

“ _What?_ ” Yuri bristles like a cat, predictably.

“Or are you too… scared?” The Japanese skater is so smashed it’s a wonder he’s standing upright, and Viktor and Chris share a look. From all he can recall, the Japanese skater always keeps to himself, soft-spoken and mild.

Drunk challenge or not, it’s not in Yuri’s nature to back down. “You’re on!”

The Japanese Yuuri (that’s his name too, isn’t it?) takes his glasses off, folds them, and wordlessly shoves them at Viktor. His fierce expression, directed toward the little Russian, is captivating. Viktor is brought back immediately to memories of Yuuri on the ice, to delicate and soulful footwork.

He watches, entranced. Katsuki Yuuri can breakdance and win. Katsuki Yuuri can pull Viktor into a tango, dip him, make him smile, helplessly caught. Katsuki Yuuri can pole dance—very, very well; nothing shy and reserved about him as he makes incredible poses with a delighted Chris. Viktor is impossibly charmed.

Yuuri performs in nothing but his tie and briefs, Soulmark on full display over the kissable curve of his hip.

It’s the biggest surprise of them all, his own mark curling delicately on another’s skin. The biggest surprise of his life so far; at least until Yuuri reaches out to wrap Viktor in a clumsy, tight hug. He says something in rapid, slurred Japanese, eyes intent. Yuuri’s shirt is back on, the ugly tie somehow up on his adorably-flushed head, returned glasses askew.

“Beeeee my coach, Viktor!” His soulmate says, in English.

It’s too much.

The Russian gently detaches himself from Yuuri’s clinging arms, then presses his palm to the small of Yuuri’s back, taking a little of his unsteady weight and leading him out of the hall.

Chris is giving him a Look; the Swiss skater knows full well the shape of Viktor’s mark and is delighted by the connection he’s made. Little Yuri is also giving him a Look, albeit one of complete disgust. Viktor ignores them both, instead leaning down to Yuuri’s pink-tinged ear and whispering, “All right. Let’s go talk about it somewhere a little more private, okay?”

Yuuri transfers his cling to Viktor’s arm, and the smile his soulmate gives him could fuel the sun and all the stars.

“Yuuri,” he says, testing it out, after they’ve moved to the mostly-empty hallway.

“Viktor!” Yuuri says, muffled into the fabric of Viktor’s shoulder. “Viktor,” he adds, “Viktor.”

“Yuuri,” the shape of the name is familiar on his tongue, “are you perhaps a fan of mine?”

In the short walk to the hallway, it seems Yuuri has progressed into the nearly nonverbal stage of being plastered. There had been a truly impressive number of empty Champagne glasses behind the Japanese skater earlier.

Viktor gently takes the hideous blue tie off of Yuuri’s head.

“You know, Yuuri,” his voice is quiet, intimate, “I liked your dancing very much.”

“I like you very much,” Yuuri slurs into his shoulder.

“Your Soulmark is very beautiful,” Viktor adds.

“You’re very,” he pulls away and blinks owlishly once, twice, “You.”

Viktor waits, but there isn’t any more.

The Japanese man presses his hand to his hip, where the dress shirt now covers, confused but pleased. Viktor places his hand on top of Yuuri’s.

“Your mark is the same as mine, Yuuri.” Viktor watches as much of the smaller skater’s face as he can see (which is about half) as he absorbs the words. The Russian can tell when he understands because he starts laughing, a beautiful sound, like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard.

Drunk, pole-dancing, talented, shy, beautiful Yuuri. Viktor feels like laughing too. Yuuri presses his flushed face even further into Viktor’s arm, and Viktor pulls him into a proper hug. He fits just right.

“Viktor,” Yuuri says, like it’s his absolute favorite word.

“Hmmm?”

“Be my coach, Viktor.” He’s wholly, drunkenly adamant about this, “It has to be you.”

“...All right, Yuuri.” Viktor says, wholly sober, surprising himself. “All right.”

 

* * *

 

Viktor is more than a little put out when Yuuri doesn’t immediately reach out after the banquet. Yuuri is shy when sober, he rationalizes, and is also busy preparing for Nationals and Worlds, where they will surely cross paths again.

Except Yuuri doesn’t make it to Worlds. His soulmate bombs the next few competitions in a spectacular fashion and ends his season early.

The Japanese skater doesn’t reach out, even though Viktor had left his contact info quite clearly in his phone. Katsuki Yuuri is full of surprises, he learns, and not all of them are good.

Months later he gets his sign; a beautifully-executed performance of his own gold-winning free skate. There’s not music in the recording, but he can hear it all the same, in the expression in Yuuri’s eyes and the lines of his body as he gracefully flies across the ice. He’s saying _stay by my side and never leave_. Viktor is drawn like a magnet to the pull of that unspoken call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 海 = umi; ocean
> 
> [Yuuri/Viktor's Soulmark](http://imgur.com/a/aGjCG)  
> Q: Meri, how can a real tattoo be so detailed at that size? It's ridiculous.  
> A: I am a graphic designer, not a tattoo artist ╮(︶▽︶)╭ Also, magic! 
> 
> Thanks to my beta, [Hudebuc](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Hudebuc/profile).


	2. золото

Yakov had been against it, for a number of reasons. You’re too young, he said. Tattoos are permanent, Viktor. You’re too impulsive. Your soulmate will still be there later!

Viktor does it anyway, as soon as he can. It’s the first birthday he can remember that hasn’t been spent on the ice. The thought of waiting is ridiculous. Viktor is a romantic.

He signs the paperwork. He flirts with the Soulmarker. He lays down in the application room and closes his eyes.

Viktor fully expects his soulmate dream to be exciting, extravagant. He’s watched many dramatic adaptations of the all-important vision and has always enjoyed every cliche. Perhaps they’ll be a singer and he’ll hear a beautiful song. Maybe they’ll be another ice skater and a crowd will cheer as they pair skate in perfect harmony, bouquets thrown all over the ice.

It’s not any of those things. A quiet beach at sunset, golden light covering the sand, the waves.

He’s alone, sitting in the cool sand.

This is it? It’s so quiet. Waves crash one after another, sea spray makes the air smell like salt. A few gulls cry out, but when he looks up the sky is empty.

Everything is saturated in a honey-thick glow, warm and slow.

In his life, Viktor does not often get breaks. He practices hard, commissions his own music, choreographs his own routines. There simply isn’t time to press pause if he wants to be the best, and he intends to smash through everything and stand triumphant at the top. He’s won gold medals but plans to make history, set records.

The sunset sparkling on the waves reminds Viktor of the last time he stood on top of the podium, proud the emotions he skated reached the hearts of his audience.

Viktor wakes up contemplative and quiet, with a looping, delicate confection of a mark above his heart and no clue how to find its match.

The ocean at sunset. Golden light.

In the years that follow he is reminded of his soulmate in the glint of light on every gold medal. On a whim, he commissions custom gold skate blades and credits his mysterious love for every subsequent win.

 

* * *

 

Later, on route to Japan to answer Katsuki Yuuri’s soulful performance, Viktor reevaluates his dream. _Yuuri_ is meant to win gold, all the gold medals in the world. He has the talent, and now Viktor as his coach at the sunset of his own career. Together they will be unstoppable.

Your soulmate, dropping everything to save you. It’s a romantic cliche in every movie, every song. Viktor loves it.

 

* * *

 

Viktor Nikiforov is in Japan, in Hasetsu. The five-time GPF winner is in Yuuri’s family home, wearing a robe from Yuuri’s family onsen, eating a meal home-cooked by Yuuri’s mother. It’s too much.

He wants to know all about Yuuri—favorite food? Any lovers? Let’s sleep together, Yuuri.

Viktor Nikiforov wants to be Yuuri’s coach.

Real life doesn’t work this way; it’s beyond his wildest fantasies. Viktor Nikiforov’s beloved poodle Makkachin is drooling as Yuuri gives him tummy rubs.

Yuuri has never been so happy.

 

* * *

 

In the onsen, at the beach, Viktor’s Soulmark was always precisely hidden; out of sight behind a skin-colored cover. So when Viktor steps out of the shower in their shared hotel room in China, toweling his hair and wearing nothing but pajama pants—it’s too much. Yuuri drops his phone, nerveless fingers unable to hold on. It falls with a soft thunk in his lap.

Today, at the Cup of China, Viktor helped Yuuri win a silver medal as his coach. Also today, Viktor Nikiforov kissed Katsuki Yuuri on the lips on international television. Still, somehow, he has room to be surprised. The Russian skater is a wonder.

His own mark sits on Viktor’s chest, black strokes curling over each other above his heart.

“Viktor!” He says, sharp, world rearranging itself.

“Hmmm?” Viktor rubs his hair a few more times with the towel, then sets it to drape around his neck.

Yuuri tears his gaze away from the mark—which is very difficult—to find Viktor looking at him with one eyebrow raised. Yuuri gestures vaguely, temporarily mute.

“Oh!” Viktor’s voice is a little too casual. “It’s bad for your skin to keep it covered all the time. I’m glad we have some privacy here. The hot springs are lovely, Yuuri, but a little too public, no?”

Yuuri stops himself from touching his mark by sheer force of will alone, but it aches.

“You always cover yours up, too. It’s good to let loose sometimes.” Viktor sits on the bed next to Yuuri. Close. He’s warm from the shower. His breath stutters in his chest when Viktor’s fingers ghost over his mark, which is covered only by his thin, well-worn sleep shirt. He jerks away, stands up abruptly and retreats to the bathroom to breathe, misses the look on Viktor’s face. As closely as he watches his coach, Yuuri misses a lot of things.

 

* * *

 

Much later, back in Russia, Viktor watches the sunrise reflect off the golden ring on his hand and thinks _I have been a fool_. It had never been about winning at all.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri tilts his GPF silver in the lamplight of their Barcelona hotel room, dazed and exhausted. It’s not gold, but with the warmth that still lingers in his chest from earlier—Viktor will compete again, Viktor will coach him again—it might as well be.

It’s been a long, long day. He sets the medal on the bathroom sink and slips on his pajamas: sweatpants and a ratty, longsleeve shirt.

When he comes out of the bathroom, his coach is sitting on the bed checking Instagram, looking as tired as Yuuri feels. His hair is a little mussed, tie loose, but he breaks out into a heart-shaped smile when Yuuri sits down next to him.

“You should update your fans on the news, Yuuri. They’re waiting for you.” Viktor sets down his phone and takes off his tie.

“I’m sure they’re not as excited as yours.” Viktor’s return to competitive skating is much more interesting than Yuuri’s FS world record, Viktor’s fans will surely agree.

“Don’t disrespect the feelings of the people who look up to you and don’t underestimate yourself. You broke _my_ world record.” Viktor unbuttons the top of his shirt.

 _It wasn’t enough to win gold,_ Yuuri thinks, knowing better than to say it out loud. If he had won a gold today, though, he would be retired now. Not competing alongside and being coached by the greatest figure skater of all time/his soulmate. Maybe silver is okay for now.

“Yuuri,” Viktor says, and when he meets his eyes they are bright. “Do you know why I am so sure I can coach you and compete at the same time?”

“You’re Viktor Nikiforov,” Yuuri says, because that covers it.

Viktor laughs. “You really don’t remember the banquet.”

“Why are you bringing that up now?” He’s too tired for the blush that blooms on his cheeks.

“You were quite charming!” Viktor says.

“Viktor, stop.” He tries not to think about the Pole Dancing Incident. Phichit will never, ever let him live this down, now that he knows. It’s incredible that the photos never leaked, honestly.

“It’s true. You swept me off my feet.” Viktor sets his neatly-folded shirt down on his other side. He’s very fussy with his clothes. Yuuri's gaze catches on the gold ring on Viktor’s elegant hand.

“More like I made a drunken spectacle of myself.” There’s a good reason Yuuri refrains from drinking most of the time.

“No one could look away, especially me. You were captivating.” He isn’t going to drop it. When Viktor picks up his phone and taps into the photos, Yuuri turns his attention resolutely to the floor.

Viktor pushes his phone into Yuuri’s line of sight anyway, so he’s forced to see. Yes, that is a stripper pole. Yuuri, flushed and disheveled, is performing on it with Chris. He’s vaguely proud that his form is still good, considering how wasted he is, but. He’s nearly naked, embarrassingly open in his expression. It’s so hard to look at.

“I can’t believe you kept these on your phone,” Yuuri mumbles, looking away again to a patch of hotel carpet. “It’s so lucky none of this leaked on the internet.”

“No one would dare leak these,” Viktor says, “and of course I kept them close.” He flips to the next photo and pushes it into Yuuri’s field of view again. “Look closer.”

It’s another angle of the same scene, but Yuuri obediently looks again even though it makes his stomach curl in residual embarrassment. There’s the pole, yes, how _did_ that get in the banquet hall? There’s nearly-naked, last-place Katsuki Yuuri, drunken spectacle. At least at this point he hadn’t yet gained too much weight, he thinks, absently eying his stomach in the photo. Only a few extra pounds.

The part of the photo his brain had been unwilling to process catches up with him then. His mark is on display, bold black ink uncovered in front of so many people—in front of _Viktor_. Yuuri lets out a distressed squeak.

“Like I said, Yuuri, I couldn’t look away.” Viktor’s voice is so gentle. He sets down the phone and Yuuri can’t bring himself to meet his eyes. A shocked, static-y haze is filling his head. Showing off his mark like that, such a private thing made public… Yuuri can count on one hand the number of people he’s shown it to willingly in the years since he got it: Phichit, Mari, his parents.

And now, apparently, the entire international skating community. Plus _Viktor._

Yuuri has one arm wrapped around his middle. His breathing feels unnaturally loud in the hotel room, heartbeat pumping in his ears too fast. He reaches up to tug his own hair, a grounding technique that works sometimes, but Viktor intercepts and presses a delicate kiss to the ring on his finger. Yuuri exhales.

Viktor slowly sets Yuuri’s hand on his bare collarbone and waits.

He isn’t wearing his mark cover. Feeling almost detached, Yuuri traces his fingers over familiar black swirls, then looks up into bright blue eyes, clear and cloudless. “You _knew?”_

“You asked me to be your coach, at the banquet.” Viktor says, casually, like he isn't rearranging Yuuri's entire world. “I told you our marks matched.”

“I did _what?_ ”

“And then you never reached out! Rude to leave your soulmate waiting like that.” His voice is anything but upset, eyes kind. 

“And you never said anything?” He had asked Viktor to… to be his _coach_ , so Viktor had…

“You’re a very private person, Yuuri.” Yuuri’s hand is held warm between Viktor’s palm and chest. “I learned it’s best to meet you where you are.”

Yuuri feels a pang of guilt, that he could have made _Viktor_ feel unwanted, ever.

“I didn’t know,” he says, voice more firm. “I don’t remember. If I had-” Actually, he probably would have still run away. Not now, though, not now. Yuuri wraps both his arms around Viktor’s neck and presses forward in a kiss, trying to convey his apology without words. Viktor pulls him into his lap and kisses back, delighted. One of his hands slips under Yuuri’s shirt and rubs little circles with his thumb into the mark there, and it’s—Yuuri presses closer, closer, closer.

When they break apart, forehead to forehead, Viktor says, “I’m so glad it’s you.”

It’s so close to what Yuuri had been about to say that he’s surprised enough to reveal, “I always hoped it would be you.”

Viktor holds him tight and gives a delighted hum.

“What did you dream about?” Viktor asks after a while, warm and relaxed.

Yuuri thinks back to a little foil-lined booklet in Detroit. “The ocean,” he admits. “Makkachin.” He presses his nose into the space behind Viktor’s ear. “Your eyes.”

“I saw the ocean, too,” Viktor says, fond. “A gold ring.” Yuuri can feel his peaceful breathing through where their chests press together. “And this feeling, right here.”

Peace. Love. Yes, this feeling. Yuuri’s face is wet, suddenly. He’s _so_ happy.

“Viktor,” he says, “stay beside me always.”

Viktor’s voice is a little choked up, too. “I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> золото = zoloto; gold
> 
> Thank you so much reading! (´ ∀ ` *)
> 
> Q: Why didn't Viktor show off his mark immediately after arriving in Japan? He knows his true match, there's no reason to worry about fakes.  
> A: It's Yuuri's mark too. Yuuri's feelings are important, and he seems to want to keep it private for now...? lol poor Viktor. 
> 
> [Let's be tumblr friends](http://miss-meri.tumblr.com/)


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